Shake Your Foundations
by gin and ironic
Summary: Sam and Dean go undercover in a gay bar.  Wincest, but not really.


Title: Shake Your Foundations  
Author: Gin/backinblack  
Rating: R  
Summary: Sam and Dean go undercover in a gay bar. Wincest, but not really.  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, situations, or locations used herein. I make no profit from said usage.  
Notes: A ton of places referenced in this fic are real, but unfortunately (to my knowledge) The Roost isn't. Mitchel Barns is all make-believe, too. And yes, the title is totally jacked from AC/DC.

They were in Dallas, Texas, stopping for the night in a No-Tell during the long, sweaty ride from Natchez, Mississippi to El Paso. Coming into Texas on I-20 was a mess and they'd been stuck behind semis practically the whole way. Dean'd worked up the mother of all bad attitudes and jumped into the shower first thing, so Sam pursued the vending machines outside the room while Dean rinsed off the daily grime. He got some stale Doritos and plunked down a handful of change for that day's The Dallas Morning News and a battered issue of yesterday's Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

Texas was a hotbed of the supernatural; battlegrounds and haunted houses and weird poltergeist activity. He'd be stupid not to dig up a hunt, and it was routine to salt and burn anything suspicious, anywhere and anytime they stopped in the state. Sam had only been through a few times growing up, and most of it was confined to Austin where they knew a guy and had a place to stay, but Dean told him a story about Waxahachie almost four years back and some plantation he'd ended up burning down.

Dean came out the bathroom toweling his hair and yawning. He noticed Sam sitting at the dinky motel-issue table, laptop whirring and both papers spread out on either side of him, feet propped up on the bed. He threw his towel over his shoulder into the bathroom behind him. "Find anything?"

"Uh. Nothing in the obits, apparently only old people and gang members like to die around here, but there was something in both papers I'm looking up now."

"Cool." He turned the air on, ignored its clunking protest, and flopped down on his own bed. The scratchy-slick coverlet caught on his boxers and the backs of his thighs. "Lemme know." He turned on the tv and channel surfed until he caught a rerun of Law & Order, the _real _one, and settled down to watch.

McCoy was working up a good head-wobbling fury in a closing argument when Sam finally stopped squinting at his laptop and rustling with the newspapers. "So, it looks like there's a string of murders – guys, mid to late twenties – all disappearing from the same place. A bar, uh, a gay bar called The Roost in downtown Dallas. Six guys so far."

Dean muted the commercial and checked the score on ESPN. He wasn't too hot on sports but you never knew when it'd pay to keep up. "Sounds like generic fag-bashing or serial killer to me, Sammy."

"Yeah, that's the funny thing." Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth and leaned into his laptop. "Same thing happened in the 80s. A guy named Mitchel Barns killed ten local gay men, lured them from bars and on one memorable occasion, killed a couple who were going at it in their car. They caught him a few years into it. He served twenty odd years in a Dallas prison before he was executed in 05."

"What, so he was like a Dahmer-type?"

"No, he shot all of them in the head execution-style. Efficient." Sam rubbed at his mouth again. "He was army."

"Ouch, cold. Okay, so, we thinking this Barns guy is starting back up now that he's, uh, out of custody?"

"Looks like. It's the same M.O., man, down to the two victims in the car. And the murders started a week after he was killed."

"Makes sense." He flicked back to McCoy, who was enjoying his usual post-victory glass of scotch and carrying on with the hot blonde ADA. Man, old episode. "One thing, though. You said all those guys disappeared from one bar? That can't be right, I mean, back in the day he can't have been sticking to just one place."

"No, he didn't, you're right. The Roost is the only place they've gone missing from, but it's not like it's the only gay bar in the area. I dunno why he's sticking to one place now."

"Yeah, well, crazy dead people don't make a lot of sense. So, what's the plan? Know where he was buried?"

"That's the thing. He was cremated."

"Jesus. He was real determined to stick around, wasn't he."

"Or something's keeping him here."

"No shit." The credits started to roll, but thanks to some true genius in charge of programming at TNT, you couldn't escape marathons of Law & Order if you wanted to. "Any idea what it is?"

"Nope. I, uh. I thought we might. You know, swing by The Roost tomorrow and see if anyone's seen anything."

Dean shrugged and went to put the tv back on, but the thought actually had a moment to filter through his brain and he stopped. "Wait, you want to go hang at the gay bar?"

"For leads. Obviously."

"Obviously. And you're totally fine with havin' a beer and letting all those guys cruise you? Maybe lean in a little, give you their number, ask you if you want to take it somewhere else..."

Sam had an odd flash of being dragged off of a barstool and into a back alley, screaming, by some random guy. Not likely. "Dude, it's not like I'm _helpless_, and anyway it's not like I'm going there by myself."

Dean slowly turned, face blank. He opened his mouth to speak and had to try a few times. "Are you kidding."

--

"I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to wear."

Sam looked up from his notes and found Dean pawing through the wrinkled contents of his duffel. Jeans, jeans, cargos, and about five different prints of flannel. All roughly the same as his wardrobe. He was pretty sure Dean's tweed suit was clean, or at least not wrinkled, and the last business suit they'd bought from Goodwill was out because Dean'd frayed the hem of his pants and spilled hot sauce on his dress shirt. Suits weren't exactly options, anyway.

"Wear what you'd wear to a bar."

"Yeah, useful, smartass. What I wear to a bar is what I _wear_, and I dunno about you but to me leather and flannel screams flaming _hetero_. I don't own any mesh." He considered a blue t-shirt and chewed his lower lip. "Do you have any bandannas?"

"Man, it must be fun, whatever universe you live in, because from where I stand all gay guys don't wear _mesh_." Dean flipped him off, still distracted. "Your jacket is fine, Rambo. Wear a Metallica shirt, I know you've got to have one tucked away for those lonely nights."

"Shut the fuck up. You're wearing a hoodie. You'd wear a berka if you could get away with it."

"It's the only thing clean!" he said, defensive, fiddling with the zipper mechanically. "I've got a t-shirt on underneath."

Dean just smirked at him and pulled off his tan shirt, swapping it for the blue one on his bed. His amulet stood stark against the pale of his chest and disappeared momentarily when he put the blue on. "I can't believe you're so cool about this. We're going undercover in a gay bar, Sam."

"It's just a_ bar_, stop being such a prick."

"Hey, hey." Dean's hands went up in mock surrender. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not grossed out or anything, but we're two straight dudes in a gay bar, and that's not exactly familiar territory."

Sam sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. Dean wasn't freaking out, exactly, but he'd clearly rather pull a b&e at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, or spend the night watching Sandra Bullock movies, than be caught hanging out at the local gay bar. Sam had a sick desire to tell him just how popular he'd be, but that would probably kill the whole night. He opted for pacifying honesty. "Dude, handy trick I learned at Stanford. Gay bars are a great place to meet women. Single women. Out with their gay friends." Dean was staring at him. Staring at him like the time he'd sprouted a third eye during an unfortunate incident in New Orleans when he was fifteen. He squirmed a little, uncomfortable. "Not a big deal, Dean."

He shook his head and blinked, slow. "Gay bars are a great place to pick up chicks. Right. Why does no one tell _me_ this. I could've been making a killing."

Sam threw his empty coffee cup in Dean's direction, laughing, and felt a tiny bit of the tension seep from his shoulders. It might not be the worst thing that ever happened to them. Their showdown with a leprechaun back in 2000 probably took first place in that category.

Dean slid into his jacket and snatched his keys off the nightstand. "I'm ready, grab your berka and let's hit the road."

--

The Roost was really like any other bar. Any other gay bar, maybe. Sam had only been to one back in Palo Alto, pre-Jess, like he told Dean. He hadn't actually hooked up with anyone, but a really sweet redhead gave him her phone number and her roommate Josh had bought him a drink.

Dean parked the Impala streetside and kind of slouched his way in behind Sam, who paid their cover and tried to look like he belonged. He was pretty tall, even for a guy, so he tended to stick out, and Dean playing his glum shadow probably didn't help them any with being incognito. He walked up to the glossy purple bar counter and wedged himself onto a stool next to three guys enthusiastically bopping to Madonna. And here he'd thought Madonna was a cliché.

Dean took the stool next to him and hunched over a dish of peanuts. He didn't look at anyone, not even Sam, and his jaw was clenched like a steel trap.

Sam nudged him. "Dude."

He looked up, wary, for all the world looking like he was protective of his peanuts. "What."

"You look like you're at the dentist. Order a beer."

"Fine," Dean said, still clenched, and turned to get the bartender's attention. He didn't need to bother. A guy in a black shirt stood directly in front of him, expectant. To Dean's credit, he didn't flinch or look horrified, but to the bartender's credit, he wasn't actually checking Dean out. Much. "Can I get a Corona with lime and a Bud light. _Not _on tap."

The bartender turned away and got them their bottles. Dean went back to his peanuts. Sam figured this meant he'd have to pay. "Cheap date," he said, trying for a joke, and Dean might have been amused if he didn't say the same thing every time Dean made him get the drinks.

The song changed and their drinks came. Dean mashed the lime inside the neck of his bottle and started chugging away. The Bud tasted like piss, but so did all light beer. Sam recognized Dean's attempt to keep Sam sober while he got as close to shitfaced as possible while on a job.

Dean finished the Corona in record time and signaled for another. He got out his wallet this time, or Sam seriously would have made noises about the roles in their relationship. "So," he started, not visibly any more at ease but maybe open to talking after shotgunning a beer and about to start another, "any ideas?"

"I figure we sit around, wait and see if there's anything suspicious," i.e. Barns leaving with some twink, or some chatter about the murders, "and try and ask a few questions." He wasn't sure how far to go with it. They didn't have a real plan, since Burns was cremated and cremated, murderous spirits were pretty rare. No idea what was keeping him here, no idea how to find it, and their lead was waiting around for something to fall in their lap. The sheer amount of variables in the situation were starting to give Sam a headache, and he wondered why only old people and gang members had to die in totally non-suspicious circumstances that week.

Dean raised his new bottle of Corona in a small toast, mouth twisted into something like a smile. "Here's to Madonna."

Sam rolled his eyes and clinked his bottle against Dean's.

--

Nothing. No one even talked to them, much less dropped useful information about the murders into their lap. They'd pretty much stayed at the bar the whole time, silently downing beer after beer. Once Sam had gone to the bathroom. He knew it was stupid, but he didn't have his college friends and tequila to loosen his tongue this time around. Instead he had Dean, who was doing a pretty good impression of Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain.

"You seriously need to work on your people skills."

Dean flailed a little, halfway pissed off, mostly useless. "_Sorry_, Jesus. It's not like I didn't know. I'm workin' on it." He shucked his clothes methodically, limbs jerky and fitful, the line of his back radiating unresolved tension.

"Work fast. We're going back tomorrow night, and we're not doing this whole mime routine again. I don't want to blow this hunt, man, and we've got to be in El Paso by Monday night."

"Fuck you, I know." He climbed into bed and dragged the covers up over his chest. "I'll figure something out. Meanwhile you've got to come up with a damn good story for us to be poking around asking questions about a bunch of dead guys at the place they got marked."

"It's weird they haven't shut it down yet," Sam said, idly plucking at his sheets. "Six murders in like two and a half years, and that place was packed on a Thursday. Bizarre."

"Apparently it's the oldest and busiest gay bar in downtown Dallas." Sam looked at him, eyebrows raised. "I read the fliers while you were in the john."

"Did you take one home as a souvenir?" Sam teased, not able to stop from laughing and not really giving a fuck.

Dean turned off his light and rolled over, fluffing his pillow violently for good measure.

--

Day two. Dean paid their cover this time, still sticking close to Sam but obviously trying to keep cool, not quite giving off the Made of Stone vibe. Sam went and found them a place near the pool tables and one of the bars, the floor thumping remixes under his feet. Their beers came and they sipped slowly, giving the room an active once-over. They sat close together out of habit and solidarity in a strange place, and it didn't really occur to Sam that they were sitting_ together_ until a guy with a jacket almost identical to Dean's came up to them.

"You guys are definitely new." He had to speak up to be heard over the drunks at the pool tables and the pounding speakers. They'd definitely blown, he could hear crackling in time with the beat.

Sam smiled, the kind that was so fake it hurt his face. "You must come here a lot to figure that one out."

"Nah, you just don't look like you're from around here." Sam nodded and flexed his fingers around his Bud light. Dean was looking at the guy but gave the impression he was thinking about something else. Golf, or dry-cleaning, or dental surgery, maybe. The dude didn't seem to put off, though, even stepped closer. "I'm Sam."

Oh, great. "I'm --" he fished for a name in the space of a heartbeat, couldn't remember what his current fake ID said, and blurted out "-- John. This is my-- this is..." Oh, shit, he couldn't think of anything other than _Dean_, and all Dean's favorite lead singers and underrated bassists escaped him too. "Rufus."

"Hi," Dean said mournfully.

Sam flashed a smile of too-perfect teeth. He was nice looking enough, but _so_ not in this universe, and they had the same name, and it was just too creepy to continue thinking about. "You're a couple, then. I figured y'all were together, but I thought I'd check." He nodded in their direction, and Sam didn't have to reach to picture him inclining a Stetson, and left.

"That went well, _John_."

Sam winced. "Yeah."

"I can't believe it. Rufus. You couldn't think of anything better than fucking Rufus. And now everyone thinks we're doing it. Rufus and John." Dean's knuckles went white against his bottle.

He took a sip of beer and tried to think. Beside him, Dean was slipping back into his slouchy, peanut-protecting mode. They had two nights left after this one, which looked pretty much wasted. The "hang out and wait for people to chat us up" plan was utter bullshit and he needed to think of something else.


End file.
